by Amanda Aksel
She looks even more confused. “Then why did you come home with me?”
“I didn’t come home with you. I was making sure you got home. And not with some guy like Josh. That’s what Delia would have wanted.” Which is what got us into this mess in the first place.
Her expression softens. “Still. That’s very misleading.”
I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe. “Yeah, I can see that now.”
“So, she really doesn’t know how you feel?”
Actually, she knows everything I feel. And think. And do. “I’m sure she knows in her own way.”
Shannon seems to take a minute to consider this, then looks at me like she’s put it all together. Can she see through to the truth in her drunken state? Then again, being intoxicated may be the only way to comprehend it. “Wait, you said you worked at HBG, right?”
“Yeah . . .”
She gasps, covering her mouth. For a second, I think she’s about to puke again. “I think you’re the guy she’s been crushing on for years.” Her pale hand slides down to her heart. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“It’s okay.”
“I thought his name was Eric. Or did she say Rick? I dunno. Rick, Eric—I guess that all kinda sounds the same.”
Her lubricated logic isn’t too bad. If it gets me out of explaining that I’m Delia and gets her off my dick, then all the better.
The smell of fried tortillas wafts nearby. “You in the mood for some tacos?”
She shakes her head. “I’m in the mood for bed.”
So am I.
I help pull her up but she manages to walk, hunched over, to her partitioned room while I retrieve the water. “Here. Drink this.”
She sits up and takes a big gulp of water, then lets out a satisfied sound.
There’s a good little drunk girl.
“You good?” I ask, and she nods, sinking back beneath the covers, pulling the sheet to her chin. “Okay. Good night, Shannon.” I leave my friend to sleep it off.
“Wait!” she calls. What now? A bedtime story? “I’m sorry if I ruined your birthday.”
I breathe out an exhausted laugh. “Trust me. You didn’t ruin my birthday.”
“Okay, good. Because listen, I know Delia and I’m positive she doesn’t know how you really feel. You really should tell her. I know she’d love to hear it.”
I smile at her kind gesture to the real me. “I will. As soon as I see her, I’ll make sure she knows how special she is to me.” Because she is special. And it took all of this for me to realize it. If only I had shown myself more compassion, showered my body in appreciation, and found the courage to believe in myself unconditionally, then maybe I wouldn’t be in my friend’s apartment in the middle of the night pretending to be someone else. Maybe I’d actually be happy. Even if life isn’t perfect.
The hall light flickers then goes dark. I whip my head left then right, waiting for the light to return.
Still dark.
“What the . . . Damn, girl, did you spend your electric bill money on cocktails?” I retrieve my phone and turn on the flashlight.
She slowly climbs out of bed and peeks behind the thick fabric of her drapes. “No, the entire city’s out. Even the traffic lights.”
“A blackout?”
“Yeah, I think so,” she says, squinting in the torchlight.
How can this happen two nights in a row? And on the opposite side of town? I let out a fatigued sigh. There’s no way I’m walking seventy-five blocks home in the dark. “Do you mind if I hang out until the lights come back on?”
She tosses me one of her pillows. “Go for it.”
I lower my phone to guide the way back to her sofa. Five minutes later there isn’t a speck of light in the room. Guess I better get comfortable. I shrug my shoulders out of my jacket and kick off my shoes before settling into the vintage-style cushions. Breathing in the lingering scent of Shannon’s shampoo on the pillow is almost comforting. This morning I thought this would be the worst day of my existence, but all things considered, I guess it wasn’t so bad.
“Good night, Richard,” Shannon says through a yawn, and I catch it too.
“Good night,” I say, letting my eyes close for just a minute.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A thundering clatter from the street jolts me conscious, but my eyelids are too heavy to lift. Do they have to collect garbage this freaking early? I adjust my body against the bed, trying to sink into it as if it will silence the horrendous drone.
It doesn’t.
Groaning, I fold my pillow over my ear. Just five more minutes. Please! My bladder’s buzzing like an alarm—the kind without a snooze button. Ugh. What’s today anyway? It’s gotta be . . .
The memory of yesterday rushes back like an outlandish dream: me waking up with a penis; overhearing Todd Fairbanks; talking my way into a position at Monty Fuhrmann—twice; everything Eric confessed . . . my pulse quickens.
Holy shit! That actually happened.
I’m a man.
A man named Richard.
My eyes shoot open and I pat gently between my thighs, taking stock of my schlong. Huh? Where is it? I cup my hand against myself.
Wait . . .
I dig into my loose pants, feeling the shape of my precious labia. While one hand reunites with my lower half, the other slides across the hills and valley of my chest.
My breasts! A full B cup. It’s all here!
I gasp and rub my blurry eyes. “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.” My familiar womanly frame is completely intact—everything from the peaks of my chest to the tips of my toes in Frankie’s dress socks. When my vision doesn’t clear with a few more blinks, I know it’s me. It’s really me!
I’m back, baby! Whoo!
Never have I appreciated being a woman as much as right now. I reach for my glasses on the nightstand, and the rest of the room catches up to me.
Hold up.
This isn’t my apartment.
A groggy morning groan grumbles on the other side of the room divider. My hand leaps over my mouth as I freeze, cringing and holding my breath. Shit! How would I ever be able to explain Delia waking up here when Richard slept on the couch last night? I have to get out of here.
Now.
My escape is twelve feet away and fuzzy as all hell. I hold my breath and swing my feet over the edge of the sofa, landing on the slick hardwood. This isn’t the first time I’ve crept out of someone’s place after a sleepover, but it was nerve-racking then and nearly unbearable now. I collect Frankie’s jacket and shoes, listening for Shannon’s sleepy breaths. Strong and steady; she’s still out. As I tiptoe toward the door like Elmer Fudd hunting wabbits, the floor creaks beneath my feet and I stop dead.
Slow, Delia. Take it slow.
If I make it out unnoticed, it’ll be the second miracle of the day. And it’s only the ass-crack of dawn.
With every move, my trousers inch farther down my hips. I crouch down, clutching the shoes and jacket against my waist to keep them from falling completely. Carefully, I peek around the divider and can just barely make out Shannon buried in rumpled white sheets. Still sleeping.
Whew.
I lift my Gucci off the entry shelf like it’s a sleeping newborn and hold it close. With my arms full, I struggle to reach for the door handle without a sound. My heart races faster and faster, wanting me to get the hell out with the same speed. I hold my breath and manage to turn the knob with a slick, sweaty palm.
Almost there.
“Richard, is that you?” Shannon croaks from her bed just as I slip out. Damn, she sounds like shit.
“Fuck,” I mouth to myself. Then, in the manliest voice I can muster, I say, “Yeah.” Just go, Delia. Just get out of here! “Gotta run.” I sound like every woman I’ve ever heard doing a shitty impersona
tion of her dumb boyfriend.
I slam the door shut and hurry down the stairs, which is no easy task with socked feet, ill-fitting clothing, and blurred vision. But I make it to the foyer and huddle next to the mailboxes.
Okay, jacket—check.
Shoes—check.
Gucci—check.
Breasts—check!
I hurry into Frankie’s gray jacket and black shoes, glancing behind me in case Shannon’s on my tail. But knowing her, she won’t leave her bed for at least an hour. What time is it? I reach inside my sagging pants and pull out my phone. Dead again. I force a frustrated sigh and pull Frankie’s belt tighter, but there aren’t enough holes to secure it. Figures. The one time my waist is too small. Plan B. I tug off the leather and it jingles like fucking Santa Claus is coming to town, pants slipping down faster than a cookie addict can slide down a chimney.
The sound of footsteps echoes in the stairwell. Uh-oh. I look up just as a woman in a sleek ponytail and skintight yoga gear passes by, shooting me a nasty look.
“Well, good morning to you too,” I say under my breath as I yank at the pink paisley tie. The knot releases, and I thread the silk through the belt loops, cinching it until it fits right. Okay, now I’m ready. Ish.
Outside, the sun is just coming up behind the buildings. I start trekking downtown, my heart pounding fiercely in my ears. There’s no way I’m riding the train like this but there isn’t a cab in sight. At least I don’t think there is. All I can make out are blurry blobs of color passing along the road. It takes two more blocks before I see anything that even remotely resembles a cab. I step off the curb, waving it down. “Taxi!” But it passes right by me. Then another. And another. I’m sure I look ridiculous wearing a grossly oversized men’s suit.
Worst walk of shame ever.
Just as I’m about to give up and find the closest subway, a yellow car pulls over and I hop inside as fast as my feet in these big-ass shoes can carry me.
“What happened to you?” The driver’s gruff voice grates on my ears.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
He turns back with a crooked expression. “I’d believe you have cab fare if you showed me.”
Understood. For all he knows I’m an escapee from crazyville. I reach inside my Gucci and whip out my magic plastic card, flashing it in front of his face.
“Where’re you headed?” he says, satisfied.
I exhale. “East Village.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I rush up the stairway to my apartment, forgoing quiet courtesy as I thump my oversized shoes on each step. My keys jinglejangle as I drill one in the keyhole and push the front door open. A second later, the sound of Frankie’s feet stomping along the old wood floor booms from his bedroom.
“Delia? Is that you?” He turns the corner to the living room then stops short at the sight of me. Out of breath, and practically drowning in his suit, I stare back at him. “Oh my god! You’re back! You’re really back! I was so worried about you!” He plows into me and wraps his arms around my shoulders.
I hold on to him tightly, relief expelling from my lungs. I’m home. “It really happened, right? I had a dick yesterday?”
Frankie pulls away, flashing a smile as big as his heart. “Either that or you pulled off the most ingenious hoax I’ve ever seen.”
“If only I were that clever.”
His eyes scan my entire frame as if he’s looking for cuts and bruises on his suit. “Michael Kors still looks good, but Delia . . .” He cringes. “You’re a hot mess.”
I lower my blurred gaze and lift my foot a few inches off the ground. Frankie’s black leather shoe slides back to my ankle, while my fingertips barely peek out of the jacket sleeves. “I feel like a fucking vaudeville clown. I need to get out of this getup.” I slip easily out of my roommate’s shoes, looking forward to walking in my own again.
“Is that Delia?” Regina’s voice barrels down the hallway before she does. She rushes to me but stops short of an embrace, holding on to my shoulders tightly while looking me up and down. Her eyes light up like it’s Christmas morning. “Holy shit! You’re back!”
Yes, I am.
She wrangles me into her arms, squeezing all the air out of my lungs.
“I . . . can’t . . . breathe.” I barely manage the words.
She releases her grip. “Sorry! I’m just so glad you got your body back.”
“Me too. I can’t tell you what a relief it is,” I say.
“Did you spend the night at Shannon’s?” Before I can answer she gasps, covering her mouth with her hands. “Ohmigod. Did you change back in front of her?”
My stomach twists, matching the expressions on Frankie’s and Regina’s fuzzy faces. “Not exactly. I slept on her couch because of the blackout.”
“Another blackout? Frankie, did you see the blackout?” Regina seems more surprised by the second blackout than my second miraculous body change.
“I don’t think so.”
“So what did you tell Shannon this morning?” she asks.
I shrug innocently. “Nothing. She was still in bed when I flew out of there like a bat out of hell.”
“Aw, you poor thing,” Frankie says with a pouted lip. “Why don’t you change? So I can have my suit back.”
I roll my eyes, shrugging the jacket off my shoulders. “You want the underwear back now too?”
“Um, no . . .” He gently lays the fabric over his arm.
“You guys want coffee? I could use some coffee. I’ll go make some coffee.” Regina backs away, blabbering like she’s already had three espressos.
“Yes,” I say with an exhale. “Make it strong. Like, grows-hair-on-your-chest strong.” The moment the words leave my mouth the three of us freeze, trading cautious glances. “On second thought, regular’s fine.”
“Comin’ right up!” she says and disappears into the kitchen.
Frankie inches close like he wants to tell me a secret. “So is, ah . . . everything back to normal?”
“Yes, Frankie. Now you’re the only one in this apartment with a dick.”
“Just checking. Will you come to the hospital for another blood test today? I’ve got to compare the two samples.”
“Absolutely.”
I schlep my Gucci to the bedroom, trousers dragging at my feet along the way. Closing myself in my room, I lean my head back against the door, letting the pants finally fall at my feet. My apartment. My room. My body. Appreciation for this moment wells in my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper to whatever gods changed me back again. For the first time in so long, I not only know what I want, but I know who I am. Cleaning toilets for months scrubbed away my memory of what I’m capable of and what confidence affords.
I wiggle my feet out of the fallen fabric, unbuttoning the salmon shirt enough to shimmy it loose. Frankie’s striped boxer briefs slide down as I walk to find my dark frames on the nightstand. I kick off the undies and slide my glasses on easily. Finally, I can see clearly again. My wall mirror seems to wait patiently for the reveal, and my heart flutters in anticipation. I step in front of my reflection.
Wow!
It’s so much more incredible than I remember. I hold my precious face in my hands like a good friend I haven’t seen in years. Staring into my own eyes is the best birthday gift I could ever receive. I love it so much that I kiss the glass. Muah! I don’t even mind the tiny blackheads on my nose or the stray eyebrow hairs. With a big smile, I whip around to check out my bird tattoo, totally intact. I take a good look at my tush. Faded stretch marks and cellulite never looked so good. I give it a shake and it jiggles around like Jell-O.
So cool!
I slip on a pair of white cotton panties, a comfy bra, an old tee, and my favorite stretchy leggings. Clothes that fit on a body that’s all mine! As cheesy as it sounds, I actually hug myself, grinni
ng ear to ear.
Knock, knock.
“Come in!” I say, reaching for my Gucci on the floor. Regina pushes the door open, carrying my mug that reads This Might Be Wine. Frankie follows behind, double fisting two more cups.
“Here you go.” Regina hands over the hot brew.
“Thanks.” I settle on my bed and gesture for them to join me. While they get comfortable, I plug in my phone and take my first sip. The vanilla flavor lingers on my tongue and I let out a satisfied hum.
“So I see you need glasses again,” Frankie says.
“From what I can tell, everything survived the change back.” Everything but my soul-sucking pessimism.
“Do you think it’ll happen again?” Regina asks, as if I could possibly have a clue. The thought of pissing from a penis again gives my coffee a sour taste.
“Fuck, I hope not.”
“So what now?” Frankie’s worry-stricken eyes burn into me, but the only fire I feel is the one under my ass urging me to take this city by the balls just like I did yesterday. But today, it will mean so much more.
My phone dings an alert, then another, and another. “Hang on,” I say, picking up my device.
ERIC: Are you awake? (12:30 a.m.)
FRANKIE: You’re still not home. Are you okay? (2:41 a.m.)
OWEN: Where are you? (8:08 a.m.)
“Shit. I’m late.” I leave my coffee and phone on the nightstand and climb off the bed.
“Late for what?” Regina asks.
My nerves tingle in anticipation of the unknown. “I was supposed to be at Monty Fuhrmann ten minutes ago. Well, Richard was, anyway.”
Regina swings her legs around and plants her feet on the floor. “Wait. You’re going back?”
“Of course I’m going back.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little crazy?” she asks.
“What’s crazy is yesterday as Richard, it was ballsy. Today as Delia, you want to question my sanity?” Fucking double standard.
“That’s not what I mean. But c’mon. What are you going to do? March in there like you did yesterday and tell them you’re Richard Allen?” Her words give me pause for about, oh, half a second.